Monday through Friday, I drive 37 miles between the tidy city streets of downtown Frankfort, to the industrial corridor of Traverse City, Michigan. Home to work and then back again. Depending on the weather, the time of year, and the time of day, I can make the trek in about 40 minutes, and/or 90. It all depends.
In December, I found the trip was taking 75, consistently. Everyone was driving about 40 miles an hour as we were pounded, day after day with a steady stream of white, puffy snowflakes. During this seemingly less than tolerable portion of my commuter’s history, I found listening to our local public radio station, IPR, practicing Spanish, and listening to a couple of holiday gifts (mixed cd’s) got me through it all.
I haven’t always been a car-driving commuter. I’ve had the luxury (and general proximity) of such frivolities as apartment-above-the-garage convenience (during the stint I was a nanny in New York), or the ‘three doors away’ convenience of an artsy loft in the neighborhood of the studio I worked at for three years. Another time, I chose to purchase a house that was not only on the main drag, close to the highway, but less than three miles from my office and on a main bus route. Normally, ‘work’ is nearby and the option to ride my bike, walk, or roller blade has been the plan of attack. BUT, change is inevitable.
I’ve been driving a 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier since January of 1997. “Stella” as she is named, because of her general demeanor and car-riding charisma, has gotten me from here to there, forever.
She kicks more ass than I can count.
27 May 2010
24 May 2010
Engage
"Never get tired of doing little things for others. Sometimes, those little things occupy the biggest part of their hearts." -- Author Unknown
I find this suggestion to be one of the favorite of my life. For whatever reason, I learned long, long ago, the sheer delight of doing just this--the trick is knowing that it does not have to be about spending any money on anyone, but simply being thoughtful... stepping outside of the 'bubble' of yourself long enough to notice the other wonderful folks all around, and interacting and reacting on behalf of something that you recognize in them-- it could be the simplest gesture...
:)
Practice Random Kindness & Other Senseless Acts of Beauty!!
02 September 2009
Boone Docks
“We only go to Boone Docks if it’s an emergency!”
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
Summer's Wake
Tall ship slice
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.
For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.
Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.
For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.
Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...
My nation tis of thee
Independence day, 2009
On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009
On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009
Devotion
For my Daddio…
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.
26 June 2009
soul sun
thin veil reveal
green tree
deep
brown
earth...
i smell rain on your hands
look there... past the blue deep
beyond the grey-white, billowy cloud
there above the hills
over the undulating tree line
i see her...
feel that soul sun
high
in the abysmal expanse
i feel her warmth
rooted in my belly
soul shine
leap from rooftop
intrinsic as dew drop
speckle forehead
and brow
with your heat glow
glisten
and
slide.
green tree
deep
brown
earth...
i smell rain on your hands
look there... past the blue deep
beyond the grey-white, billowy cloud
there above the hills
over the undulating tree line
i see her...
feel that soul sun
high
in the abysmal expanse
i feel her warmth
rooted in my belly
soul shine
leap from rooftop
intrinsic as dew drop
speckle forehead
and brow
with your heat glow
glisten
and
slide.
17 June 2009
On Baking
Leaning over the sink, I glanced out the window, peaking at a chubby spring robin, breast of burnt umber. Flipping the knob to 350, removing the wok and cornflower blue cast iron skillet, I set about organizing some counter space and to begin baking.
I find the art of baking does not take much effort. It’s actually quite simple—follow and or create consistent directions, contribute to your local economy by investing in really good ingredients, and almost just as essential as organic, free range eggs, [please] ensure you add a healthy dose of ‘good guys’ (as my dear friend Ben refers to ‘good vibes’)… what I mean to say is when baking, ‘commence with a happy heart!’
I have learned (the hard way) over the years, that no different than a teaspoon versus tablespoon misstep, if you come to the kitchen with a kink in your attitude, you might just as well ‘fuggetabout it’ and go buy your prospective gift recipients a hearty box of Newman-O’s!
I am keen on using separate bowls for dry and wet ingredients. Ideally, I enjoy using my shorter, stouter, sea-green ceramic bowl (a gift from my aunt) for dry ingredients, and my sister’s deep indigo-blue ceramic piece for wet. About two years ago, I treated myself to the purchase of a large sterling silver bowl that is perfect for extra large batches of dough—lately though, I have preferred the handmade pottery to the hammered metal.
Due to some serious issues with procrastination and an inability to prioritize what I would like to do with what I think I have to do. I typically do not plan in advance to bake. It’s often a spontaneous reaction to the reminder of an important date of some kind. In this haste, the butter is never at room temperature and I usually slow-melt it in one of my blue saucepans.
I’ve found that baking is its’ own form of therapy. In particular, I enjoy the method to this art, the grace of bouncing around the kitchen, listening to some good music, or perhaps Car Talk on a Saturday morning. I dig the ritual of putting on my apron—I have an assorted collection, small but sentimental. Customarily, I am baking for someone or something—some kind of communal event—or a birthday, a thank you, and every so often, as a way to repay someone, barter-style, for a service they offered to me. Sometimes my aunt will edit some of my ad copy or a short piece of marketing collateral, and although I do not have the budget she deserves, she’s happy to receive my thanks and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.
Another little idiosyncrasy of my baking practice includes amassing all of the ingredients and the properly sized measuring cups and spoons so they are sitting on the counter in little groups—the dry with the dry, the wet with the wet. At some point, I will need to add a colorful, ceramic collection of ramekins to this arsenal…making this seemingly OCD activity as harmonized as possibly… ostensibly synchronized appropriately.
For some reason, I always start with the wet ingredients—maybe it’s the way I was taught or the way all of the recipes I’ve ever perused are written. Maybe it’s because I find that if you slowly add your dry ingredients to the wet ones that mixing is simpler, and you know right away if something is off with your dough consistency. It also aids in not producing a white, puffy cloud of dry ingredients during a plot of wet into dry.
The last time I baked, as I went from preparing wet ingredients to dry, I realized I had not grabbed the all-important sifter for my baking stockpile and reached into my baking-pantry shelves to grab it. When I did, I pirouetted from one side of the kitchen to the other (my kitchen set up is two long strips (including sink/stove/refrigerator and countertops) separated by a narrow piece of hardwood floor. The baking pantry is on one side and the space I was using for preparation was across the floor, next to the sink. So in this movement—one that I do almost repetitively while baking, was a moment. In it were my grandma’s hands.
As memory often does, it sneaks up on you, sensorily… the fragment of an image or sound or scent reminds and transports. In my moment there, I had traveled from my dissimilar, black-counter-topped kitchen with a window overlooking the side yard, to my gram’s kitchen, there on Platte Road, (not the large, white, cavernous grandparent’s home of my youth. It had long-ago been destroyed and traded-in for an expanded bank parking lot and a fat bag of cash; no, it was the diminutive, ‘retirement’ spot, just down the way, where they both came to die that I speak of). Where the out-of-date, gold speckled Formica met the sink and the sink was in front of a window overlooking the backyard.
My grandparents were both wonderful craft persons particularly in the kitchen—my grandma a master pie (crust in particular) and pound cake baker (among myriad other talents) and my grandpa an excellent baklava and rice pudding aficionado.
In fact if it weren’t for my gram’s stellar piecrust, I might not be on the planet! My mom, a spritely 16-year-old waitress at the local diner served pie baked with that recipe to an older, hippie, just home from Vietnam. When he learned that it was her mother’s recipe, he asked if she knew how to bake pie like that. Flirtatiously, she hurriedly answered ‘yes!’ and later begged her mother to teach her, straightaway.
I lived, briefly in my grandparent’s ‘retirement’ home after they both had past away. Even before that though, two of the treasures granted me from their kitchen supplies were the silvery metal measuring spoon set and old-fashioned tin sifter.
Every time I bake I think of her, the worn metal of the teaspoon in her fingertips—she had the loveliest hands and nails—soft and sumptuous. Whenever I pick the spoons up, and they clank together, I imagine the way she may have wiped the last smidge of vanilla onto her apron, so she could measure baking soda next.
Sighing now, with the deep, satisfying inhalation of acceptance that memory has a magical way of stirring and healing the spirit, I realize that in that one iota of remembrance, that I am now writing about, that it is not just gram’s hands to remember… maybe it’s the approach of Father’s Day, but in fact, I recognize that I think of them, for they shared a kitchen for more than 50 years, and Grandpa’s knack was diverse and delicious.
I find the art of baking does not take much effort. It’s actually quite simple—follow and or create consistent directions, contribute to your local economy by investing in really good ingredients, and almost just as essential as organic, free range eggs, [please] ensure you add a healthy dose of ‘good guys’ (as my dear friend Ben refers to ‘good vibes’)… what I mean to say is when baking, ‘commence with a happy heart!’
I have learned (the hard way) over the years, that no different than a teaspoon versus tablespoon misstep, if you come to the kitchen with a kink in your attitude, you might just as well ‘fuggetabout it’ and go buy your prospective gift recipients a hearty box of Newman-O’s!
I am keen on using separate bowls for dry and wet ingredients. Ideally, I enjoy using my shorter, stouter, sea-green ceramic bowl (a gift from my aunt) for dry ingredients, and my sister’s deep indigo-blue ceramic piece for wet. About two years ago, I treated myself to the purchase of a large sterling silver bowl that is perfect for extra large batches of dough—lately though, I have preferred the handmade pottery to the hammered metal.
Due to some serious issues with procrastination and an inability to prioritize what I would like to do with what I think I have to do. I typically do not plan in advance to bake. It’s often a spontaneous reaction to the reminder of an important date of some kind. In this haste, the butter is never at room temperature and I usually slow-melt it in one of my blue saucepans.
I’ve found that baking is its’ own form of therapy. In particular, I enjoy the method to this art, the grace of bouncing around the kitchen, listening to some good music, or perhaps Car Talk on a Saturday morning. I dig the ritual of putting on my apron—I have an assorted collection, small but sentimental. Customarily, I am baking for someone or something—some kind of communal event—or a birthday, a thank you, and every so often, as a way to repay someone, barter-style, for a service they offered to me. Sometimes my aunt will edit some of my ad copy or a short piece of marketing collateral, and although I do not have the budget she deserves, she’s happy to receive my thanks and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.
Another little idiosyncrasy of my baking practice includes amassing all of the ingredients and the properly sized measuring cups and spoons so they are sitting on the counter in little groups—the dry with the dry, the wet with the wet. At some point, I will need to add a colorful, ceramic collection of ramekins to this arsenal…making this seemingly OCD activity as harmonized as possibly… ostensibly synchronized appropriately.
For some reason, I always start with the wet ingredients—maybe it’s the way I was taught or the way all of the recipes I’ve ever perused are written. Maybe it’s because I find that if you slowly add your dry ingredients to the wet ones that mixing is simpler, and you know right away if something is off with your dough consistency. It also aids in not producing a white, puffy cloud of dry ingredients during a plot of wet into dry.
The last time I baked, as I went from preparing wet ingredients to dry, I realized I had not grabbed the all-important sifter for my baking stockpile and reached into my baking-pantry shelves to grab it. When I did, I pirouetted from one side of the kitchen to the other (my kitchen set up is two long strips (including sink/stove/refrigerator and countertops) separated by a narrow piece of hardwood floor. The baking pantry is on one side and the space I was using for preparation was across the floor, next to the sink. So in this movement—one that I do almost repetitively while baking, was a moment. In it were my grandma’s hands.
As memory often does, it sneaks up on you, sensorily… the fragment of an image or sound or scent reminds and transports. In my moment there, I had traveled from my dissimilar, black-counter-topped kitchen with a window overlooking the side yard, to my gram’s kitchen, there on Platte Road, (not the large, white, cavernous grandparent’s home of my youth. It had long-ago been destroyed and traded-in for an expanded bank parking lot and a fat bag of cash; no, it was the diminutive, ‘retirement’ spot, just down the way, where they both came to die that I speak of). Where the out-of-date, gold speckled Formica met the sink and the sink was in front of a window overlooking the backyard.
My grandparents were both wonderful craft persons particularly in the kitchen—my grandma a master pie (crust in particular) and pound cake baker (among myriad other talents) and my grandpa an excellent baklava and rice pudding aficionado.
In fact if it weren’t for my gram’s stellar piecrust, I might not be on the planet! My mom, a spritely 16-year-old waitress at the local diner served pie baked with that recipe to an older, hippie, just home from Vietnam. When he learned that it was her mother’s recipe, he asked if she knew how to bake pie like that. Flirtatiously, she hurriedly answered ‘yes!’ and later begged her mother to teach her, straightaway.
I lived, briefly in my grandparent’s ‘retirement’ home after they both had past away. Even before that though, two of the treasures granted me from their kitchen supplies were the silvery metal measuring spoon set and old-fashioned tin sifter.
Every time I bake I think of her, the worn metal of the teaspoon in her fingertips—she had the loveliest hands and nails—soft and sumptuous. Whenever I pick the spoons up, and they clank together, I imagine the way she may have wiped the last smidge of vanilla onto her apron, so she could measure baking soda next.
Sighing now, with the deep, satisfying inhalation of acceptance that memory has a magical way of stirring and healing the spirit, I realize that in that one iota of remembrance, that I am now writing about, that it is not just gram’s hands to remember… maybe it’s the approach of Father’s Day, but in fact, I recognize that I think of them, for they shared a kitchen for more than 50 years, and Grandpa’s knack was diverse and delicious.
02 June 2009
molding clay
The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering. --Ben Okri
For today at least, I’ve determined an answer to a chicken/egg sort of self-observation… in some ways though, I know for certain, I am not alone in this ever-present evolution… this molding of clay.
As an over analyst by both craft and trade (HONK!), I spend a fair amount of time perplexed of my own accord.
I have dabbled in therapy.
Self-help healing.
Manuals on bettering and furthering.
I have aspired and inspired, relished and rehashed.
Often though, in retrospect, I might make myself barf. Instead.
Seriously.
What with the excess emotion—felt, anticipated, often expected, ridiculed…
What with it all?
Truly?
No. I will not blablabla. For although my life is a shared soliloquy of blablabla’s to whomever has not grown too tiresome from the listen, it is in the sorting—the turning of eggs and flipping of hotcakes, that true sourcing gleans-through–skimming to the top… surfacing, temporarily, sometimes stunningly…
And so to reflect a bit on dear Ben Okri… in my ‘capacity to create’
I do overcome.
I do endure.
I have transformed.
I do love and have been loved.
Am loved.
I do not suffer.
The countless experiences that have sculpted and shaped me are not dismal reminders of the negative… not painful scar-tissue-filled mounds… no.
They have left their stories on every inch of me.
They have changed my structure, my fibrous-being alters, unendingly.
Yet how is it, that in all the tedium of reconstruction; the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months; the YEARS of evolution—How is it exactly that at the tip-top, when I fancy that I too
walk like I'm on a mission
cuz that's the way I groove
[when in fact…]
I got more and more to do
I got less and less to prove
[and when I smack-myself-in-the-forehead…
wonderin’ why]
it took me too long to realize
that I don't take good pictures
cuz I have the kind of beauty that moves (Evolve, Ani diFranco)
And I get it, I just get it and I feel it in every last pore—in all the nooks and crannies, all the way to my toes, and the insecurities are dead-gone. Not just tucked away for the night under their handmade quilts, but gone from down-deep…
G O N E away…
How come then… the eureka moment of peace dissolves into a reality where it is neither tip or top?
Nadir it is neither, yet a blurred somewhere in between.
A boat, adrift unanchored, it’s anchored-rope severed.
How come then, with one terse word. With the fragment of one little memory, all the built-up-foundation of new construction—the new growth, strong in its fertile homeland.
How come then, must doubt seem to eradicate it all?
Crumble the sand castle into the sea?
How to desire motion, again, from whence it has ceased?
How to let the empty ache of pain subside?
Let the belly fill again with the humble renewal of laughter…let the heart, fill again its balloon of hope, full.
Splash again there, in the waves, build that sand-castle, knowing full-well the raindrops may reshape… the grains wash away again, into the sea…
For today at least, I’ve determined an answer to a chicken/egg sort of self-observation… in some ways though, I know for certain, I am not alone in this ever-present evolution… this molding of clay.
As an over analyst by both craft and trade (HONK!), I spend a fair amount of time perplexed of my own accord.
I have dabbled in therapy.
Self-help healing.
Manuals on bettering and furthering.
I have aspired and inspired, relished and rehashed.
Often though, in retrospect, I might make myself barf. Instead.
Seriously.
What with the excess emotion—felt, anticipated, often expected, ridiculed…
What with it all?
Truly?
No. I will not blablabla. For although my life is a shared soliloquy of blablabla’s to whomever has not grown too tiresome from the listen, it is in the sorting—the turning of eggs and flipping of hotcakes, that true sourcing gleans-through–skimming to the top… surfacing, temporarily, sometimes stunningly…
And so to reflect a bit on dear Ben Okri… in my ‘capacity to create’
I do overcome.
I do endure.
I have transformed.
I do love and have been loved.
Am loved.
I do not suffer.
The countless experiences that have sculpted and shaped me are not dismal reminders of the negative… not painful scar-tissue-filled mounds… no.
They have left their stories on every inch of me.
They have changed my structure, my fibrous-being alters, unendingly.
Yet how is it, that in all the tedium of reconstruction; the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months; the YEARS of evolution—How is it exactly that at the tip-top, when I fancy that I too
walk like I'm on a mission
cuz that's the way I groove
[when in fact…]
I got more and more to do
I got less and less to prove
[and when I smack-myself-in-the-forehead…
wonderin’ why]
it took me too long to realize
that I don't take good pictures
cuz I have the kind of beauty that moves (Evolve, Ani diFranco)
And I get it, I just get it and I feel it in every last pore—in all the nooks and crannies, all the way to my toes, and the insecurities are dead-gone. Not just tucked away for the night under their handmade quilts, but gone from down-deep…
G O N E away…
How come then… the eureka moment of peace dissolves into a reality where it is neither tip or top?
Nadir it is neither, yet a blurred somewhere in between.
A boat, adrift unanchored, it’s anchored-rope severed.
How come then, with one terse word. With the fragment of one little memory, all the built-up-foundation of new construction—the new growth, strong in its fertile homeland.
How come then, must doubt seem to eradicate it all?
Crumble the sand castle into the sea?
How to desire motion, again, from whence it has ceased?
How to let the empty ache of pain subside?
Let the belly fill again with the humble renewal of laughter…let the heart, fill again its balloon of hope, full.
Splash again there, in the waves, build that sand-castle, knowing full-well the raindrops may reshape… the grains wash away again, into the sea…
27 May 2009
Not one...
Imagine: the start of an extra long holiday weekend—‘summer’s kickoff’ we relish the notion, here in the north.
The icing on the cake… some exquisite quality time spent with a couple of your favorite kids, with the added bonus (their choice as Ab proclaims, “I haven’t had a sub in forever and I JUST LOVE SUBS aunt Jenn!”) an informal dinner from your friendly, neighborhood Subway… the sun, working on setting for the night all golden, bronze and blue-skied.
Having just finished disc three’s Spanish lesson with, ‘soy Northe Americana de Chicago’ we practice and then proclaim with accuracy, ‘soy Northe Americana de Michigan’. We flip to Abby’s favorite song from Rodney Crowell’s album, Fate’s Right Hand. The cute thing is that for years, Crowley’s ballsy lyrical masterpiece was Isaac’s favorite as well. Granted, there are a few, shall we say, ‘choice’ lyrics, a bit more PG-13 than G in the song—but the kids in my life have more soul than they know how to handle.
If you’re like me, you let ‘em take it in deep, in long, slow draws.
So you drive along, headed toward a red traffic light & hear Jack as he busts into his red bag of Dorito’s, too anxious for the two-mile trip to a Friday night retreat on Long Lake. Three seconds later, over the traffic, the music, and Abby’s throaty serenade, auntie-Jenn ear’s perk to hear a devastatingly familiar rattle—Jack’s throat, mid-choke.
You look over your shoulder, swerve into the right lane and onto an extremely conveniently placed, extra-wide sidewalk, rip back the emergency brake, flip the hazards, (somewhere deep fearing police, but not really caring one iota), and hurriedly extract a frightened, slightly overwhelmed, choking four year old Jack from the belt of his booster seat.
Faintly remembering the Heimlich maneuver for adults and then some fragment of ‘what not to do’ with children, you ask Jack to bend over; to try to expel. Rubbing his back, holding his tummy, you notice he is bleeding; panic, but see that he has ‘just’ bitten his lip during the ordeal.
You realize he is no longer choking, just crying. Phew. Hugs. He sips something cold to drink. More hugs.
Afterward kneeling on the sidewalk holding Jack closely—car improperly parked, hazard lights beaking their ‘emergency’ signal, you glance around—watching drivers at the busy Traverse City intersection. As each of them pass by, many pointing, laughing, and making assumptions, you are overwhelmed. You are also, disappointed.
Not one car stopped to ask if we were ok. Not one.
The icing on the cake… some exquisite quality time spent with a couple of your favorite kids, with the added bonus (their choice as Ab proclaims, “I haven’t had a sub in forever and I JUST LOVE SUBS aunt Jenn!”) an informal dinner from your friendly, neighborhood Subway… the sun, working on setting for the night all golden, bronze and blue-skied.
Having just finished disc three’s Spanish lesson with, ‘soy Northe Americana de Chicago’ we practice and then proclaim with accuracy, ‘soy Northe Americana de Michigan’. We flip to Abby’s favorite song from Rodney Crowell’s album, Fate’s Right Hand. The cute thing is that for years, Crowley’s ballsy lyrical masterpiece was Isaac’s favorite as well. Granted, there are a few, shall we say, ‘choice’ lyrics, a bit more PG-13 than G in the song—but the kids in my life have more soul than they know how to handle.
If you’re like me, you let ‘em take it in deep, in long, slow draws.
So you drive along, headed toward a red traffic light & hear Jack as he busts into his red bag of Dorito’s, too anxious for the two-mile trip to a Friday night retreat on Long Lake. Three seconds later, over the traffic, the music, and Abby’s throaty serenade, auntie-Jenn ear’s perk to hear a devastatingly familiar rattle—Jack’s throat, mid-choke.
You look over your shoulder, swerve into the right lane and onto an extremely conveniently placed, extra-wide sidewalk, rip back the emergency brake, flip the hazards, (somewhere deep fearing police, but not really caring one iota), and hurriedly extract a frightened, slightly overwhelmed, choking four year old Jack from the belt of his booster seat.
Faintly remembering the Heimlich maneuver for adults and then some fragment of ‘what not to do’ with children, you ask Jack to bend over; to try to expel. Rubbing his back, holding his tummy, you notice he is bleeding; panic, but see that he has ‘just’ bitten his lip during the ordeal.
You realize he is no longer choking, just crying. Phew. Hugs. He sips something cold to drink. More hugs.
Afterward kneeling on the sidewalk holding Jack closely—car improperly parked, hazard lights beaking their ‘emergency’ signal, you glance around—watching drivers at the busy Traverse City intersection. As each of them pass by, many pointing, laughing, and making assumptions, you are overwhelmed. You are also, disappointed.
Not one car stopped to ask if we were ok. Not one.
19 May 2009
little Red
little red-hot anger,
I see you
all scrunched-eyes
and pendulum swing
volcano-scorch-dirge
you make me sweltery
at my neck
itchy
pin-prickle
seethe in your cave
in the corner
engulf
or
release the
pent-up-mess-of-it
your torrent
[like a kombucho lid]
tell it like it is
just
sayitsayitsayit
one-by-one inch mosaic-tiles-worth-at-a-time
deep breath this time.
your heart won’t race.
your insides shred to mush.
articulate your heart
steadfastly,
and calmly
Instead.
22 April 2009
Pitter-Patter (Chapters 1 & 2)
730a
Grey skies loom out my windowed-view, yet the pitter-patter of little bare feet on the hard wood floor tickle my tummy. I’ve been awake for some time although I am snuggled here.
Instead of jolting into the normal routine of the day-to-day, hitting snooze one too many times, I have luxuriated in a fragrant haze, that luscious delicacy of a Saturday morning at home.
I hear the thud-thud as your pads turn the corner, and the sneaky tip-toe as you sneak to see if I am still snoozing. Surprising you from under the heap of down cover, I am ear-to-ear-good-morning-ing you and your eyes, bright as chocolate pie, flicker with a light source all its own.
Looking at your tall, lanky frame this morning, I still see the pig-tailed-toddler and the familiar Saturday morning refrain, during visits north, ‘can we go to the bak-ew-ee jenn?’
Today the same refrain, and a sure smile, I know we are both wondering if the grey skies outside might allow us the added treat of a puddle-jumping tramp to our Main Street haunt.
Roost
Perched atop the leather-topped, padded barstool, swiveling back and forth waiting on a peach smoothie, I listen as you tell me about your friend’s birthday party plans for later today. I like the way you look deeply into my eyes, seeing me listening to you. You are a natural storyteller.
Listening, I am reminded of how lovely your raconteur-skills have evolved. A favorite past time is rifling through the lined-paper-pages of stories, poems, and imagery we have collected since you began school.
I delight in the flowering maturation of your penmanship—your fertile use of phonics to articulate the vocabulary of your painter’s palette. Sometimes we giggle deep, with the cleverly crafted spelling.
I am so proud of how very quickly you went from listener to reader and it sends shivers of joy into my center to know that you are a seven-year-old bibliophile.
Grey skies loom out my windowed-view, yet the pitter-patter of little bare feet on the hard wood floor tickle my tummy. I’ve been awake for some time although I am snuggled here.
Instead of jolting into the normal routine of the day-to-day, hitting snooze one too many times, I have luxuriated in a fragrant haze, that luscious delicacy of a Saturday morning at home.
I hear the thud-thud as your pads turn the corner, and the sneaky tip-toe as you sneak to see if I am still snoozing. Surprising you from under the heap of down cover, I am ear-to-ear-good-morning-ing you and your eyes, bright as chocolate pie, flicker with a light source all its own.
Looking at your tall, lanky frame this morning, I still see the pig-tailed-toddler and the familiar Saturday morning refrain, during visits north, ‘can we go to the bak-ew-ee jenn?’
Today the same refrain, and a sure smile, I know we are both wondering if the grey skies outside might allow us the added treat of a puddle-jumping tramp to our Main Street haunt.
Roost
Perched atop the leather-topped, padded barstool, swiveling back and forth waiting on a peach smoothie, I listen as you tell me about your friend’s birthday party plans for later today. I like the way you look deeply into my eyes, seeing me listening to you. You are a natural storyteller.
Listening, I am reminded of how lovely your raconteur-skills have evolved. A favorite past time is rifling through the lined-paper-pages of stories, poems, and imagery we have collected since you began school.
I delight in the flowering maturation of your penmanship—your fertile use of phonics to articulate the vocabulary of your painter’s palette. Sometimes we giggle deep, with the cleverly crafted spelling.
I am so proud of how very quickly you went from listener to reader and it sends shivers of joy into my center to know that you are a seven-year-old bibliophile.
17 April 2009
Sippy
Canter on out, into the swish and wish of a mid day
sun
rise.
Swirl and whirl
your hips
undulate into the unknown
mercurial
oblivion
of another’s universe.
Make it your own.
Sip it silly (long, sippy draws).
into the deep-belly-depth of your center.
Inhale something wicked fierce.
Let it tickle your fancy.
sun
rise.
Swirl and whirl
your hips
undulate into the unknown
mercurial
oblivion
of another’s universe.
Make it your own.
Sip it silly (long, sippy draws).
into the deep-belly-depth of your center.
Inhale something wicked fierce.
Let it tickle your fancy.
18 March 2009
Colonic Tonic
Just stepped into The Bean, for a cup of hot, black coffee, in hopes of clearing the, what feels like 10 lbs of sediment sitting in my intestines this morning. A whole lot of greens the past few days, and maybe not quite enough water? Like a cigarette in the morning (so I’ve heard from many smoking friends), it is a catalyst I seek.
In addition to the hot, black, java fix, I am greeted with Ani lyrics (it's not just everywhere that you'll hear Ani DiFranco belting some folk). Singing boldy, with zest, I glance out the window into an icy parking lot parked with cars of every size, shape, color and age. Here I am, working at a mix of blue-collar, white-collar facility, in the northern part of a state whose had its fair share of blows to its economic base over the past few years. Lucky for us, we stand tall. For now.
In addition to the hot, black, java fix, I am greeted with Ani lyrics (it's not just everywhere that you'll hear Ani DiFranco belting some folk). Singing boldy, with zest, I glance out the window into an icy parking lot parked with cars of every size, shape, color and age. Here I am, working at a mix of blue-collar, white-collar facility, in the northern part of a state whose had its fair share of blows to its economic base over the past few years. Lucky for us, we stand tall. For now.
Tacoma
The Pacific Northwest is one of my favorite parts of the United States—Eugene and Florence, Oregon; Corvallis too. I intended to move there in 1999. On dreamy day’s off from my expositorily-unfulfilling retail day-job, I would spend hours at the library, examining topographical maps, creating routes windy and never circuitous; venturing to places like Half Moon and Libby Montana along the way. I wanted to run along ‘Going to the Sun’ road in Glacier. To bed a mountain man. To enjoy the sweet splendor of a western morning, alone, unafraid of what it most certainly would bring to my center.
Tacoma. Seattle. Visited in feb 06. Loved it there.
The day after i arrived, i took the third of three pregnancy tests, and learned i was pregnant for the first time in my life. I spent an hour investigating 'motherhood' sites on the web, while dilas showered. I had gone on an early morning, green-in-winter, run through her neighborhood streets. My sweat hadn't yet dried on my skin. Her boxer, stella, was licking my knee as i sat there, researching.
I remember glancing away from my laptop screen and staring at my hands, typing. Looking up my arm, at the freckles. Contemplating mannerisms and genetics.
When i was a sophomore in college, i experienced my first short bout with the 'biological clock' ticking that can happen to women. I remember talking about it to a friend who was on a PhD track, who was Catholic, and already dating Aaron, the man she intended to marry (and did, although they've been unhappy for years). I remember her shaking her head at me, admonishing it. For me, i was simply sharing something that was going on with me. I hadn't planned for it. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't even dating or having sex at the time. It was just happening with my body.
It happened again when i was 26. Again, i wasn't dating. I was very casually involved with a man who was disinterested in dating me, but was enamored of my heart, and infatuated with my body.
I distracted myself with work. I let go of the noncommittal man who frankly did not deserve my attentions. The biological clock thing ticked herself away.
Since then, it hasn't really happened. I mean kids typically love me. I'm a lot like them. I like playing outside and laughing and i'm not afraid to get dirty. I also collect bouncy balls and wear pony tails or braids a lot, so i guess we're sort of on the same level.
When i learned i was pregnant, i was with someone who was in love with me, and who i was really enjoying the company of. I was enthralled with the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder and that although in our 30's, that we'd met when i was 19--he'd known me when i was just a girl. For a short time, i excited myself with the notion of 'finally' moving on with life--'finally' growing up and 'settling down' as everyone seems to label it. We'd both been engaged before, but had yet to marry. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't wait to get a dog, and have the newspaper delivered to our front yard, and teach our child how to play catch. The enticement of motherhood and 'adulthood' didn't last long. True colors revealed themselves. Both his and my own.
Like a character in a story i had read, that woman's story evolved into something else.
Children. Parenting. For so many years now, it seems, i imagine that 'someday' when my 'adult' life begins, that i will be a borrowed mother. A fill in, when my lover's children are away from their own wonderful mother.
'Step parent' sounds so crass. So empty somehow. At least when borrowed, you are soft, and worn-in a bit; the edges aren't sharp or splintery. You don't have to climb (step) toward it, instead you are wrapped up in it--enveloped in a blanket of additional love...i'm not explaining it well...the point is i guess i wrote childbearing out of my script...somehow, and sometimes i just don't understand it at all, and yet other times, it simply suits me. As i am a caregiver, i am also an aunt. I was born to be an aunt, a borrowed-mom, for a short time, when my sister's are away.
Shoveling this morning, I thought about mountain men, and breadwinners. About how you become your own person-of-the-house one day after another, and eventually it leads you to a life, alone. The piles of white snow are high—surprisingly. The snow is beautiful. Stark. Freezing. There is so much snow this year. This winter reminds me of when i was a child. One year my dad built us this incredible igloo fort in the front yard. It was amazing. I swear we played in it the entire winter...that was the kind of winter's we used to have. Tons of snow and snow that lasted all winter--not just a few weeks at a time, only to melt and turn grey...this area thrives all year, it's been called 'the year round playground" for years, but wacky winters with melting weather really hurt the economy as well as the spirits of the locals.
So far, this year seems to be just the pick-me-up all the curmudgeons needed.
Tacoma. Seattle. Visited in feb 06. Loved it there.
The day after i arrived, i took the third of three pregnancy tests, and learned i was pregnant for the first time in my life. I spent an hour investigating 'motherhood' sites on the web, while dilas showered. I had gone on an early morning, green-in-winter, run through her neighborhood streets. My sweat hadn't yet dried on my skin. Her boxer, stella, was licking my knee as i sat there, researching.
I remember glancing away from my laptop screen and staring at my hands, typing. Looking up my arm, at the freckles. Contemplating mannerisms and genetics.
When i was a sophomore in college, i experienced my first short bout with the 'biological clock' ticking that can happen to women. I remember talking about it to a friend who was on a PhD track, who was Catholic, and already dating Aaron, the man she intended to marry (and did, although they've been unhappy for years). I remember her shaking her head at me, admonishing it. For me, i was simply sharing something that was going on with me. I hadn't planned for it. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't even dating or having sex at the time. It was just happening with my body.
It happened again when i was 26. Again, i wasn't dating. I was very casually involved with a man who was disinterested in dating me, but was enamored of my heart, and infatuated with my body.
I distracted myself with work. I let go of the noncommittal man who frankly did not deserve my attentions. The biological clock thing ticked herself away.
Since then, it hasn't really happened. I mean kids typically love me. I'm a lot like them. I like playing outside and laughing and i'm not afraid to get dirty. I also collect bouncy balls and wear pony tails or braids a lot, so i guess we're sort of on the same level.
When i learned i was pregnant, i was with someone who was in love with me, and who i was really enjoying the company of. I was enthralled with the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder and that although in our 30's, that we'd met when i was 19--he'd known me when i was just a girl. For a short time, i excited myself with the notion of 'finally' moving on with life--'finally' growing up and 'settling down' as everyone seems to label it. We'd both been engaged before, but had yet to marry. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't wait to get a dog, and have the newspaper delivered to our front yard, and teach our child how to play catch. The enticement of motherhood and 'adulthood' didn't last long. True colors revealed themselves. Both his and my own.
Like a character in a story i had read, that woman's story evolved into something else.
Children. Parenting. For so many years now, it seems, i imagine that 'someday' when my 'adult' life begins, that i will be a borrowed mother. A fill in, when my lover's children are away from their own wonderful mother.
'Step parent' sounds so crass. So empty somehow. At least when borrowed, you are soft, and worn-in a bit; the edges aren't sharp or splintery. You don't have to climb (step) toward it, instead you are wrapped up in it--enveloped in a blanket of additional love...i'm not explaining it well...the point is i guess i wrote childbearing out of my script...somehow, and sometimes i just don't understand it at all, and yet other times, it simply suits me. As i am a caregiver, i am also an aunt. I was born to be an aunt, a borrowed-mom, for a short time, when my sister's are away.
Shoveling this morning, I thought about mountain men, and breadwinners. About how you become your own person-of-the-house one day after another, and eventually it leads you to a life, alone. The piles of white snow are high—surprisingly. The snow is beautiful. Stark. Freezing. There is so much snow this year. This winter reminds me of when i was a child. One year my dad built us this incredible igloo fort in the front yard. It was amazing. I swear we played in it the entire winter...that was the kind of winter's we used to have. Tons of snow and snow that lasted all winter--not just a few weeks at a time, only to melt and turn grey...this area thrives all year, it's been called 'the year round playground" for years, but wacky winters with melting weather really hurt the economy as well as the spirits of the locals.
So far, this year seems to be just the pick-me-up all the curmudgeons needed.
Rain
A dark, puddle-ridden pathway, winding down an October road, I traversed the black night to escape the faraway look glimpsed in the mirror’s reflection…one not erased with the booze of a wedding reception, the champagne toast to a rousing reggae band.
A day of celebration for a childhood friend…an autumnal afternoon and eve, set aside in the history books, for the sake of commitment. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, teachers, acquaintances; after a long stint ‘away,’ part of another life altogether.
Small talk and talk back and one more glass and a hope to fill the empty gash, bleating like a sick cow across my abdomen, the pain seeping through the dim haze of narcotic.
Wincing the pain, I let my eyelids lightly shut, and upon doing so, a flash of memory reveals the quick tap-tap-tap on the keys of a computer keyboard (while on lunch break at work) which lightning-quick located an answer to my problem. A destination, not as many miles away this time. A solution sought, found, and endured just one day ago.
Opening my eyes, they are hot with tears. I quickly inhale, willing them away stretching my eyes open as to help absorb the extra moisture around the corners. Sniffing, I glance left and right. Take another deep breath, open them a little wider, blink briefly and sniff away the urge to dive into a tidal tumult, the source of which I might never return from. The belly of that beast, one too many riptides away from shore.
Slosh, slosh, slosh, the brown suede and crepe-paper-thin, hand painted cotton accoutrements to my fancy Brazilian slides went; enduring irreversible damage. I was numb to the want to care for the oh-too-expensive splurge.
A chill seeped through the grey black mist, tip-toed down my spine, and rattled me. It was enough to make me consider and then blatantly partake in an awkward high-heeled jog/jaunt the quarter mile to the gravel drive, wooden steps, creaky-hinged screen door and entrance into the remainder of the buzz I was seeking to soak up the bitter au juis of the disastrous finality of the previous day’s decision.
A day of celebration for a childhood friend…an autumnal afternoon and eve, set aside in the history books, for the sake of commitment. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, teachers, acquaintances; after a long stint ‘away,’ part of another life altogether.
Small talk and talk back and one more glass and a hope to fill the empty gash, bleating like a sick cow across my abdomen, the pain seeping through the dim haze of narcotic.
Wincing the pain, I let my eyelids lightly shut, and upon doing so, a flash of memory reveals the quick tap-tap-tap on the keys of a computer keyboard (while on lunch break at work) which lightning-quick located an answer to my problem. A destination, not as many miles away this time. A solution sought, found, and endured just one day ago.
Opening my eyes, they are hot with tears. I quickly inhale, willing them away stretching my eyes open as to help absorb the extra moisture around the corners. Sniffing, I glance left and right. Take another deep breath, open them a little wider, blink briefly and sniff away the urge to dive into a tidal tumult, the source of which I might never return from. The belly of that beast, one too many riptides away from shore.
Slosh, slosh, slosh, the brown suede and crepe-paper-thin, hand painted cotton accoutrements to my fancy Brazilian slides went; enduring irreversible damage. I was numb to the want to care for the oh-too-expensive splurge.
A chill seeped through the grey black mist, tip-toed down my spine, and rattled me. It was enough to make me consider and then blatantly partake in an awkward high-heeled jog/jaunt the quarter mile to the gravel drive, wooden steps, creaky-hinged screen door and entrance into the remainder of the buzz I was seeking to soak up the bitter au juis of the disastrous finality of the previous day’s decision.
19 January 2009
10.21.08 haikus
B A R A C K O B A M A
peaceful passionate leader
prevail with God speed
BARACK me the house
Roe/Wade me my body's RIGHTS
Speak to me of H O P E.
wind whipped sun-licked brow
furrow curse pretend to care
stand blame or just VOTE.
peaceful passionate leader
prevail with God speed
BARACK me the house
Roe/Wade me my body's RIGHTS
Speak to me of H O P E.
wind whipped sun-licked brow
furrow curse pretend to care
stand blame or just VOTE.
14 January 2009
Orange black sky
Survival:
Extant Leftover Remaining Residual Surviving Vestigial Viable Continuation Endurance
Natural Selection Relic Subsist Survive Weather
Survival: of, pertaining to, or for use in surviving, esp. under adverse or unusual circumstances: survival techniques.
Survival: Anthropology. (no longer in technical use) the persistence of a cultural trait, practice, or the like long after it has lost its original meaning or usefulness.
For me, the word ‘survival’ resonates most closely to an experience incurred when an almost teenybopper girl. One cold, wintry morning, I awoke coughing, choking almost, on a grey cloud of smoke. Disoriented in the dim light of a Sunday’s predawn, I turned over in the tossed-sheets of my single bed, in the tiny room of my adolescence, and started screaming. The ceiling of my little bedroom as well as the hallway outside my door was ablaze.
I was not dreaming.
Whereas fight or flight should have kicked-in, for some reason, the proximity of my dad’s beat-up old pick up truck, to what seemed the origination of bright orange flame, had me in a state of panic. Wouldn’t it blow up? Additionally, in my discombobulated state, I was yelling, with a red-hot-with-ache, scratchy from smoke-inhalation sore throat, for my parents, that there was a Fire! Fire! Fire!
Enduring the minutes between my awakenings into the inferno, which was once my family’s home, and the moment I realized I needed to extract myself, I sat there, on my bed, trying to determine whether or not it was safe to stand upright. Wondering if there was any way I could squeeze through the narrow, uniquely house trailer-specific frames of the tri-paned crank-out windows. Disillusioned from the smoke and flame-beset shell of a structure, soon to be emptied into a heap of ash, my actions were leaden.
Although ‘prepared’, in grade school as well as by our parents, for the worst sort of emergency—tornado, fire drill, wind gust or an Alberta clipper snowstorm, there was little familiarity to the seemingly foreign, and most certainly unwelcome, morning scene I had awoken to.
During those drills, you discuss how you might react to ‘emergency’ situations, but I can tell you with the certain truth of a bleary eyed twelve year old girl, that you simply have no way of predicting action of any kind—how exactly, for example, your sleepy body might react? (for me, not nearly as quickly as I likely should have—what, for example, you might think about (Nike hi-tops?). How, for example, you might feel when you see your sister’s stepping to safely out the back door; or to note the color of the sky, a deep black orange, as you glanced backward, as you ran in your bare feet and nightgown, up the snowy hill to an oblivion you had no capacity to imagine.
Extant Leftover Remaining Residual Surviving Vestigial Viable Continuation Endurance
Natural Selection Relic Subsist Survive Weather
Survival: of, pertaining to, or for use in surviving, esp. under adverse or unusual circumstances: survival techniques.
Survival: Anthropology. (no longer in technical use) the persistence of a cultural trait, practice, or the like long after it has lost its original meaning or usefulness.
For me, the word ‘survival’ resonates most closely to an experience incurred when an almost teenybopper girl. One cold, wintry morning, I awoke coughing, choking almost, on a grey cloud of smoke. Disoriented in the dim light of a Sunday’s predawn, I turned over in the tossed-sheets of my single bed, in the tiny room of my adolescence, and started screaming. The ceiling of my little bedroom as well as the hallway outside my door was ablaze.
I was not dreaming.
Whereas fight or flight should have kicked-in, for some reason, the proximity of my dad’s beat-up old pick up truck, to what seemed the origination of bright orange flame, had me in a state of panic. Wouldn’t it blow up? Additionally, in my discombobulated state, I was yelling, with a red-hot-with-ache, scratchy from smoke-inhalation sore throat, for my parents, that there was a Fire! Fire! Fire!
Enduring the minutes between my awakenings into the inferno, which was once my family’s home, and the moment I realized I needed to extract myself, I sat there, on my bed, trying to determine whether or not it was safe to stand upright. Wondering if there was any way I could squeeze through the narrow, uniquely house trailer-specific frames of the tri-paned crank-out windows. Disillusioned from the smoke and flame-beset shell of a structure, soon to be emptied into a heap of ash, my actions were leaden.
Although ‘prepared’, in grade school as well as by our parents, for the worst sort of emergency—tornado, fire drill, wind gust or an Alberta clipper snowstorm, there was little familiarity to the seemingly foreign, and most certainly unwelcome, morning scene I had awoken to.
During those drills, you discuss how you might react to ‘emergency’ situations, but I can tell you with the certain truth of a bleary eyed twelve year old girl, that you simply have no way of predicting action of any kind—how exactly, for example, your sleepy body might react? (for me, not nearly as quickly as I likely should have—what, for example, you might think about (Nike hi-tops?). How, for example, you might feel when you see your sister’s stepping to safely out the back door; or to note the color of the sky, a deep black orange, as you glanced backward, as you ran in your bare feet and nightgown, up the snowy hill to an oblivion you had no capacity to imagine.
from 1.1.07
...for me, i guess, today is a perfectly appropriate excuse to take advantage of a number of things:
a dreary, mid-Michigan late morning where the rain, grey and somewhat sad that it escapes from the skye to us in liquid and not ice-laden form...filling puddles in the streets with a seemingly hope-less moisture...a cesspool of sorts, reflecting that global warming is upon us in a frightening way...that winter in the great state of Michigan, may not be as it once was...that the times, they are a changing...evolving into a place where we strivers of goodness, rightness, justness, happiness, light-ness, must remind ourselves, remind each other, to AGAIN rise and shine and dance the dervish of our lives, all of us, here, keeping hope afloat...clearing life's puddles of their muddy cess. i splashed in two large puddles this morning, in my wellie's, after a
lovely time spent with a dear old friend, chomping a hearty breakfast at my very favorite spot in Old Town, Golden Harvest, i splashed some of that cess away...i cleared some of those cobwebs, and darted upstairs, to further the clearing of them, spending time with another dear heart, dreaming into a new year...collaborating for tomorrow's dreams. we ate chocolate cake, i drank my coffee with honey & cream, we danced the cats around the hardwood floors with a laser pointer, and we jammed to 70's disco tunes, tapping away on our respective keyboards...a blooming bouquet of red roses set between us, smiles, on
the insides of our chests, from the laughter & moments spent, watching "whose afraid of virgina woolf" last night, and imbibing with good food and the most delightful kind of company...
the reality that it is the end of another year--a year that has been, for me at least, about challenge and risk; sadness and deep-personal loss, purposeful change and the stall in time between when that change is ready to be embraced and the incubating-time where growth is inevitably on the horizon...it is in sight...it is there and is not lost, i have taken a step back, taken a look, and realized, that all the upheaval is not all for naught. as i mentioned above. it was purposeful change. it wasn't filled with whimsy. it wasn't fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants--proverbial or otherwise...
gee-whiz, that sounds a bit dismal....let me interject...that, in addition, it was a year too, where my creativity was ignited, delved into, branched upon...(for example...i sold a lot of my artwork for starters! i also worked on a few more chapters of 'that book' i've been writing for years it seems...i even decided upon a title for that work, which for me, has been the most exciting part of the autumn that just came to a close. i feel like the title actually is igniting me towards threading all the pieces of this somewhat-dilly-dallying/gallivanting project into focus!!) the positivity in the year centers itself here...where the belief in the center of my self was the one thing i trusted, and although doubt reigned herself in a moment (or maybe a month??!!) or two, for sake of that doubt, i am here today, extending myself to you, in hopes that i can erase her from my world altogether, that i may remind myself that it takes a village. i cannot do it alone. i need the love, the wisdom, the criticism, the double-dog-dares, the cynicism, the light, the grace, the acceptance, the judgment, the charisma, the charm, the beauty of each of you; encouraging me, knowing & accepting me, all idiosyncracies included...thank you to all of you, for that, most of all.
and so, i guess with that, an attempt at a close....
i guess part of the reason i've spent this time, pecking away on this laptop reflecting upon the end of a rather melancholic-expanse-in-time the past week(s) where i've been called-to-the-carpet by one closest to my heart...(thank you wanderingo) where i have realized that in all my attempts to reach out and encourage connectivity, to hasten the depth that i share with so many of you; in my new surroundings; that i have learned a lesson on patience. i have learned a lesson on the responsibilities undertaken when we have a heart of our own to take care of--and that we may have forgotten a bit, about her somehow, busying ourselves with the love and care of others, our family, our dear friends, the new ones who titillate our fancy...in the spontaneity that life sometimes allows, entertains; cajoles our senses with with, we unabashedly become immersed in momentary distraction, that, can be reckless. that can hurtful. that, it is dangerous to let go of that red-hot-muscle of our own. it is irresponsible to trust too quickly. it is fateful to speak without thinking. it is even more fateful to act without thinking; or to take action on something massive, hastily. the turmoil i sometimes feel, living the life i live, comes down to this seeming-warning label in my last paragraph....to live unabashedly, or, to be careful/cautious...
Can we instead carefully live unabashedly, or unabashedly live carefully?
i guess i'll leave you with the idea of living consciously. being unabashedly aware of the beauty of every single moment of life.
whether measured steps, or galloping gallosh-splashing skips, i'll steal an I hope not overly-cliched-phrase...may you LIVE all the days of your life.
for me, life is busied with work, with the details i often put aside, and wait until tomorrow to complete. i can't even manage to get to the post to retrieve appropriate materials to mail all the holiday greetings, new year's wishes, congratulatory & celebratory messages, and birthday woo-hoo's to those of you i left a few short months ago, or those of you who it's been years since i've seen...i think of you, all of you...in the way that i do...my mind is a kaleidoscope of collaged-memory... i am a mixed-media artist in all the various facets of my life...whether it be my diverse and ever-evolving collection of
dear hearts, who i would live and die for; the music compilations i enjoy mailing out; the stream-of-concsious-attempts at explanation or thought-sharing...the words sometimes splayed viscerally, other times abject and simply stated...the actual artwork, i paint or seam together...the dishes i enjoy preparing...it is no wonder that my life is a patchwork quilt of sorts...attempts made, risks thought about, some plunged into head first; others, skeptically awaiting further consideration, fears realized, dreams discussed...hopes dashed and then then zoomed back-into-view...
and so, as i do every year, i'll strive to be a better friend, a better lover if i get the chance; a better sister, a better daughter. i'll hope to travel, to see you and yours; to share immeasurable amounts of laughter...to cry a little less than in 2006!! to seek & find, to risk, to let it all out & sayitsayitsayit, but also know when to keep the lip zipped, breathe deeply, and wander elsewhere. i'll try to mail out those cards and thoughts i have, randomly, for you, when the mood strikes me, instead of months down the road, or more often than not, never, left in a pile of keepsakes for what might have been a connection re-established...
as i am wont to do, i'll wish for all of you, light, grace, hope, and all the love you'll let yourself inhale....deeply, and all the way to your toes.
be well my sweets!!
forever yours,
justadreamer jennryan
a dreary, mid-Michigan late morning where the rain, grey and somewhat sad that it escapes from the skye to us in liquid and not ice-laden form...filling puddles in the streets with a seemingly hope-less moisture...a cesspool of sorts, reflecting that global warming is upon us in a frightening way...that winter in the great state of Michigan, may not be as it once was...that the times, they are a changing...evolving into a place where we strivers of goodness, rightness, justness, happiness, light-ness, must remind ourselves, remind each other, to AGAIN rise and shine and dance the dervish of our lives, all of us, here, keeping hope afloat...clearing life's puddles of their muddy cess. i splashed in two large puddles this morning, in my wellie's, after a
lovely time spent with a dear old friend, chomping a hearty breakfast at my very favorite spot in Old Town, Golden Harvest, i splashed some of that cess away...i cleared some of those cobwebs, and darted upstairs, to further the clearing of them, spending time with another dear heart, dreaming into a new year...collaborating for tomorrow's dreams. we ate chocolate cake, i drank my coffee with honey & cream, we danced the cats around the hardwood floors with a laser pointer, and we jammed to 70's disco tunes, tapping away on our respective keyboards...a blooming bouquet of red roses set between us, smiles, on
the insides of our chests, from the laughter & moments spent, watching "whose afraid of virgina woolf" last night, and imbibing with good food and the most delightful kind of company...
the reality that it is the end of another year--a year that has been, for me at least, about challenge and risk; sadness and deep-personal loss, purposeful change and the stall in time between when that change is ready to be embraced and the incubating-time where growth is inevitably on the horizon...it is in sight...it is there and is not lost, i have taken a step back, taken a look, and realized, that all the upheaval is not all for naught. as i mentioned above. it was purposeful change. it wasn't filled with whimsy. it wasn't fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants--proverbial or otherwise...
gee-whiz, that sounds a bit dismal....let me interject...that, in addition, it was a year too, where my creativity was ignited, delved into, branched upon...(for example...i sold a lot of my artwork for starters! i also worked on a few more chapters of 'that book' i've been writing for years it seems...i even decided upon a title for that work, which for me, has been the most exciting part of the autumn that just came to a close. i feel like the title actually is igniting me towards threading all the pieces of this somewhat-dilly-dallying/gallivanting project into focus!!) the positivity in the year centers itself here...where the belief in the center of my self was the one thing i trusted, and although doubt reigned herself in a moment (or maybe a month??!!) or two, for sake of that doubt, i am here today, extending myself to you, in hopes that i can erase her from my world altogether, that i may remind myself that it takes a village. i cannot do it alone. i need the love, the wisdom, the criticism, the double-dog-dares, the cynicism, the light, the grace, the acceptance, the judgment, the charisma, the charm, the beauty of each of you; encouraging me, knowing & accepting me, all idiosyncracies included...thank you to all of you, for that, most of all.
and so, i guess with that, an attempt at a close....
i guess part of the reason i've spent this time, pecking away on this laptop reflecting upon the end of a rather melancholic-expanse-in-time the past week(s) where i've been called-to-the-carpet by one closest to my heart...(thank you wanderingo) where i have realized that in all my attempts to reach out and encourage connectivity, to hasten the depth that i share with so many of you; in my new surroundings; that i have learned a lesson on patience. i have learned a lesson on the responsibilities undertaken when we have a heart of our own to take care of--and that we may have forgotten a bit, about her somehow, busying ourselves with the love and care of others, our family, our dear friends, the new ones who titillate our fancy...in the spontaneity that life sometimes allows, entertains; cajoles our senses with with, we unabashedly become immersed in momentary distraction, that, can be reckless. that can hurtful. that, it is dangerous to let go of that red-hot-muscle of our own. it is irresponsible to trust too quickly. it is fateful to speak without thinking. it is even more fateful to act without thinking; or to take action on something massive, hastily. the turmoil i sometimes feel, living the life i live, comes down to this seeming-warning label in my last paragraph....to live unabashedly, or, to be careful/cautious...
Can we instead carefully live unabashedly, or unabashedly live carefully?
i guess i'll leave you with the idea of living consciously. being unabashedly aware of the beauty of every single moment of life.
whether measured steps, or galloping gallosh-splashing skips, i'll steal an I hope not overly-cliched-phrase...may you LIVE all the days of your life.
for me, life is busied with work, with the details i often put aside, and wait until tomorrow to complete. i can't even manage to get to the post to retrieve appropriate materials to mail all the holiday greetings, new year's wishes, congratulatory & celebratory messages, and birthday woo-hoo's to those of you i left a few short months ago, or those of you who it's been years since i've seen...i think of you, all of you...in the way that i do...my mind is a kaleidoscope of collaged-memory... i am a mixed-media artist in all the various facets of my life...whether it be my diverse and ever-evolving collection of
dear hearts, who i would live and die for; the music compilations i enjoy mailing out; the stream-of-concsious-attempts at explanation or thought-sharing...the words sometimes splayed viscerally, other times abject and simply stated...the actual artwork, i paint or seam together...the dishes i enjoy preparing...it is no wonder that my life is a patchwork quilt of sorts...attempts made, risks thought about, some plunged into head first; others, skeptically awaiting further consideration, fears realized, dreams discussed...hopes dashed and then then zoomed back-into-view...
and so, as i do every year, i'll strive to be a better friend, a better lover if i get the chance; a better sister, a better daughter. i'll hope to travel, to see you and yours; to share immeasurable amounts of laughter...to cry a little less than in 2006!! to seek & find, to risk, to let it all out & sayitsayitsayit, but also know when to keep the lip zipped, breathe deeply, and wander elsewhere. i'll try to mail out those cards and thoughts i have, randomly, for you, when the mood strikes me, instead of months down the road, or more often than not, never, left in a pile of keepsakes for what might have been a connection re-established...
as i am wont to do, i'll wish for all of you, light, grace, hope, and all the love you'll let yourself inhale....deeply, and all the way to your toes.
be well my sweets!!
forever yours,
justadreamer jennryan
white picket fence
i think i busted my cerebellum.
somewhere between yesterday and blablabla.
is there an antidote to the discriminatory way you blink me away into oblivion?
how your cringe, inhalation-deep, makes impressions on the richter scale of
his tor y?
roseanne, you told me to scream out loud, at the top of my lungs all ladylike and polite from the top of the highest building and right down there in the subway too.
and i did.
and i did.
and i did.
some more...
but they STILL don't hear me.
claim i'm a 'low-talker'...
dismissing the sounds for mere drivel.
sometimes, i sing a high falsetto, lachrymose prayer into the great grey-blue-beyond of eternity and forever and the place outside the limits of what i can scientifically prove, justify and disclaim. there are usually tears.
they are sharp and hot at first, and then turn into a deluge.
a waterfall of blathering idiocy.
it makes no sense.
i cannot say for sure.
there are not words for this place in my center.
...filled with every last scrap of what it means to live & breathe & gratefully transcend a life not filled w/ the placebo bullshit of antidepressants.
there are caverns of melancholy i dare not revisit.
the plunge, so deep, black, and hollow; i fear a return to the surface.
as well as billowy cloud-burst heights.
piercing the center of this moment with the sharp pointy edge of a dart into no where
i bleed the epitaph of memory
i remember
i feel it
it permeates every pore
and tomorrow
a bruise will certainly stain the space where light & dark met life & heart
and so i busted my cerebellum somehow, along the way. it's just a broken record reality, so i hope you'll stay & play.
any
way.
somewhere between yesterday and blablabla.
is there an antidote to the discriminatory way you blink me away into oblivion?
how your cringe, inhalation-deep, makes impressions on the richter scale of
his tor y?
roseanne, you told me to scream out loud, at the top of my lungs all ladylike and polite from the top of the highest building and right down there in the subway too.
and i did.
and i did.
and i did.
some more...
but they STILL don't hear me.
claim i'm a 'low-talker'...
dismissing the sounds for mere drivel.
sometimes, i sing a high falsetto, lachrymose prayer into the great grey-blue-beyond of eternity and forever and the place outside the limits of what i can scientifically prove, justify and disclaim. there are usually tears.
they are sharp and hot at first, and then turn into a deluge.
a waterfall of blathering idiocy.
it makes no sense.
i cannot say for sure.
there are not words for this place in my center.
...filled with every last scrap of what it means to live & breathe & gratefully transcend a life not filled w/ the placebo bullshit of antidepressants.
there are caverns of melancholy i dare not revisit.
the plunge, so deep, black, and hollow; i fear a return to the surface.
as well as billowy cloud-burst heights.
piercing the center of this moment with the sharp pointy edge of a dart into no where
i bleed the epitaph of memory
i remember
i feel it
it permeates every pore
and tomorrow
a bruise will certainly stain the space where light & dark met life & heart
and so i busted my cerebellum somehow, along the way. it's just a broken record reality, so i hope you'll stay & play.
any
way.
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lovely africa
